Rupture
by Annie Blythe
Summary: Mid-season three, Claire leaves Toronto. Sam and Andy deal with the fallout. Oneshot.


Where did this angst come from? It's anyone's guess. I've been steering clear of S3 spoilers, so I have no idea what is in the cards for Andy and her mother. The following scene explores the possibility of Andy's mother leaving again... I'll leave it to the reader to judge Claire's motivations.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own _Rookie Blue._

Rated Hard T for language, including the adjectival form of a four-letter word.

* * *

.

.

She's reloading her clip when he passes through the airlock. Her fingers shake minutely, a barely perceptible tremor. Few coppers would notice, but he's spent two-plus years with his radio tuned to McNally's frequency. Not much gets by him, not where an earnest smile and brown ponytail are concerned.

Muffs cover his ears, plugs in his canal. It's a precaution, a nod to _safety first_ and the TPS handbook. For a brief moment, he wishes that the handbook covered this situation: Outlined emergency response in three basic steps, how to comfort or console your partner when her absentee mother skips town. Again.

She fires another six rounds before her arm wavers, muscles quivering as she lowers her weapon.

He watches her carefully, detecting and rightly gauging the clench of her jaw. Slipping his muffs off accordingly, he waits for her to speak.

"I wanted to be a cowboy when I grew up; did I ever tell you that?"

She yanks her earmuffs off viciously, not turning from the target. He remains silent, keeping his eyes fixed on her form. In any other setting, her words might be anecdotal, the big dreams of a little McNally, outfitted with a denim vest and stick horse. But today, gun in hand and hard edge to her voice–

Well, it's the furthest thing from warm nostalgia.

"Not a cowgirl. A cowboy," she continues, rolling her shoulders and gritting her teeth. He hears the gnash, calcified tissue and a quiet _clicking_ sound. "Used to watch a lot of John Wayne movies with my dad."

"The funniest part," she continues, in a voice that suggests it wasn't funny at all, "Is that my mom said I was too young for that sort of thing. Language, guns, the works."

Her tone is embittered, and the acidity burns through his skin.

"Know what my dad used to say? 'Her father's a homicide detective, Claire. She's going to grow up fast either way.' And here's my mom on her Parent-of-the-Year soapbox, saying, 'We don't have to speed the process along.'"

She huffs out a laugh, desperate and loaded. Ripping her safety goggles off, she tosses them onto a shelf.

"Funny, right? Because I'm pretty sure _abandonment_ makes a kid grow up pretty fast," she says, hand fisting at her side. Her fingers unfurl and close again, angry and red. "A lot faster than Stetsons and pistols and old movies, that's for damn sure."

He swallows once, watching her. Her voice is nearly unrecognizable, caustic and devoid of any McNally humor.

"Ever play that stupid alphabet game when you were a kid? On long car rides? 'Cause here's what _my_ childhood sounds like: _**A **_my name is Andy and my dad's an alcoholic. My mom abandoned me, and I'm about to lose my shit."

Her shoulders slump infinitesimally, the first indication that some of her fight is gone. Her next words are jerky, a slight hiccup breaking the cadence.

"She used to pack my lunch in grade school. Every day. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, week in and week out. I liked the raspberry jelly… Prettier label; a nice shade of deep pink."

She turns to face him, eyes alight with a grief that is pervasive in the dark, quiet room. "That kind of stuff is important when you're a kid; you know?"

He nods minutely, not daring to say or do anything more.

Flexing her calves, she rocks forward, toe to heel and back again. The motion is agitated, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip. "After… After _everything_, my dad gave me money to buy lunch. I mean, I could have packed my own lunch, but he insisted. Less complicated, right?"

She takes a breath, throat working furiously. Her gaze drifts to her feet, to the boots that hide long-standing scars, marks of an adolescence spent in flight.

(He can relate – Knows what it's like to run.)

"Seventh grade field trip to this nature preserve. We're doing a unit study on ecology, and the school supplies lunch. Two bites in and I'm running out of the mess hall, dry-heaving on the trail outside." She glances up, willing him to connect the dots. "_Raspberry jelly. _Junior high isn't bad enough, right? Who gets sick over raspberry _fucking_ jelly?"

Her face crumples at the admission, legs buckling beneath her. She slides down the partition wall, setting her gun down when she hits the ground.

He remains rooted to his spot. He's seen her upset and scared and angry, has been the cause of that emotion and its recipient, but this – _this wounded expression, _vulnerable and stripped of pretense – it undoes him, makes his chest ache in the worst possible way. He wishes it were enough for him to say a few placating words; wishes it were enough to hunt Claire down and demand answers, apologies, anything. If he could rewind the clock and stop this before it happened–

(He's already learned that lesson with a loved one. Knows too well the impossibility of _wishing_.)

_Disappointment_ has become too familiar a term, a haunting part of her vernacular he'd like to erase. There's a fire in his veins, an incredulity and anger that anyone could leave her like this, splintered and broken. Andy who believes in benefit of the doubt; whose justified anger faded to forgiveness and second chances for the woman that gave her life...

Her goodness was exploited, he reflects, his ire stoked by the picture before him. In a world that doesn't make sense, the innocent get hurt, and like so many others, Andy did nothing to deserve it.

Every day she puts on blue, it's about the people of Toronto. She serves and protects with a singular awareness of humanity, of the good that exists in this city. Empathetic and driven, she's a testament to the heart behind the badge. She has enough hope to sustain all of Fifteen, enough courage and faith to inspire change on the streets, and he–

He loves her for it: the goodness that beats in her fierce lion's heart, the smile that could light the whole damn city. Loves her like he's loved nothing before.

* * *

It's that realization, pure and untainted, that brings him back to himself.

Here, in this moment, Andy doesn't need anger. She doesn't need someone to fight her battle or vilify her mother or highlight the _would have-could have-should have_ that too frequently accompanies regret.

She needs someone who will _choose_ her, who will shelve anger and selfishness and personal interest to _stay_. She needs someone motivated by love, by a desire to be present and available when things get tough.

It's a powerful thing, love.

(He's only beginning to realize the implications.)

He eyes her, spine sloped and head bowed, from the other side of the room. Wishes for all the world he could take her pain away; say those three words that have been carved into his person for months–

Make her believe that she _is_ worth it.

(He's never believed something so much.)

Still, he doesn't want it to be an ill-timed salve, a sentiment motivated by circumstance. He wants her to know that she is embedded in his life; that he needs her like he needs air in his lungs and blood in his veins. That every moment of exasperation and frustration is worth it, and he wishes he could reciprocate the happiness she brings him, the faith she restores in him, ten and fifteen and one hundredfold.

When he says _I love you_, he wants it to be about them_, _only them.

With a glance at her huddled form, he vows to say the words another day. Soon.

Vows to repeat them every day after that.

* * *

He approaches her carefully, steady gait and steadier gaze.

Slowly, he lowers himself to the ground.

Their shoulders touch, warm skin bleeding through thin cotton.

He extends his hand.

Laces their fingers together.

Waits.

Her head finds his shoulder a moment later.

This time, she doesn't have to ask him to stay.


End file.
